


sticky fingers

by fated_addiction



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's like this: sometimes, too often, it's pretty painful to look at David and Mary Margaret, curled up at the edge of the campfire.</i> Emma, Hook, and more coconuts. It's almost like a date. Post-<i>Quite a Common Fairy</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sticky fingers

It's like this: sometimes, too often, it's pretty painful to look at David and Mary Margaret, curled up at the edge of the campfire. They are all limbs and David's arms practically swallow the small impression of her pseudo-mother, pseudo-friend and fairytale legend, or something. She can squint and see that his knuckles are practically flushed.

Hook sighs. “Always like this?”

Emma wants alcohol, but the coconut sticks to the roof of her mouth. It'll have to do, no matter how depressing it is. “Yeah,” she murmurs. Her hands are around her knees again. She feels smaller. “Sure, I guess. At least how I know them.”

Tinker Bell keeps pacing. Her eyes are sharp. It makes Emma wary. She sees Regina's back too, pressed upon the tree in its own metaphor. She feels nothing but mere sympathy for the other woman, and that's better than pity these days, but she leaves it at that.

Hook presses his elbow into her arm. She looks down. The leather sticks over her skin. It's always softer than she wants to be, but it's almost always too easy to have him close. She thinks of Neal. Then she stops. Hook's hand catches at her wrist.

“What?”

“It's a perfectly good coconut,” he says. He leans over his shoulder, flicking at the coconut in her hands. Her nails skip into the skin. “You're wasting it,” he insists. Or teases. They sound the same to her, Emma thinks. Or tries to tell herself. She finds herself trying to tell herself a lot. “You should eat thought. It'll sustain you a bit until we have to rest the next go-about.”

“My stomach's uneasy,” she murmurs.

It's true too, or maybe only partially true. She's been here for what feels suddenly, too suddenly like too long and the air seems to pull at her skin and heart. It feels like the first time she walked into Storybrooke where there _was_ magic, but it was laced with too much mystery and familiarity – so much so that it made every part of her hurt.

She can breathe here, which is the strangest part and much like Mary Margaret going through the motions of what it's like to be Snow, Emma feels all the motions of what she _should_ know. It's in her skin. It's in her bones. It's the most frightening feeling next to the reality of where Henry may or may not be right now.

Turning her head, she drops it, just slightly, against Hook's shoulder. Look your neck hurts, she tells herself. And it seems like a good idea. So she tells herself again: _your neck hurts_ and ends up hissing into her teeth. Mary Margaret's eyes stay closed. David shifts and pulls her closer. She watches his knuckles flush. Regina's voice is too low somewhere off on the side.

Hook seems to relax. She watches his hand open over his knee. His fingers are long. Callouses peek over his palm and disappear into the dirt of his trousers. He still smells warm, she thinks.

“There's too many people,” she says then too.

He chokes, snorting. “Do you _really_ want to be alone with me, darling?”

“Shut up.” It's half-hearted. She isn't going to admit of this out loud, but she likes having him next to her. That's a strange security. “The coconut leaves this taste.”

“Better than swallowing.”

Emma chokes too. Her hand flies to her mouth. Her head makes an imprint on his shoulder and she smells leather over the coconut and suddenly, it's _okay_. Her body trembles though and her legs give out just in front of her and she thinks, just maybe, she's laughing without really laughing. Her mouth is closed and her teeth press into her skin. The excuses are there though, rolling around in the back of her mind, self-imposed and ready.

Hook is a terrible liar. He lets her have the moment.

But then again, she is too: _terrible_ and a liar.

 

 

-

 

 

Emma doesn't sleep.

It doesn't mean that her head leaves Hook's shoulder either. It's still dark. The forest is still wet and for whatever reason, she knows not to crane her neck over because Regina is pretending to sleeping and Tinker Bell has resumed her position by David and Mary Margaret since this is all about saving graces. Her eyes are closed too; Emma can see her under her lashes though, her knuckles rubbing over her knees. The promise of a home sometimes goes a little too far and somewhere in all of this, the excuse lives on too.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks tiredly.

“Doesn't matter,” he mutters. His fingers brush over her forehead, but he doesn't touch her. “You seemed tired enough, love,” he says. “There's no benefit in all of us resting. This isn't how this is supposed to go.”

Her mouth feels dry. Her hand fumbles and hits the coconut. Her knuckles hit the skin too and she's shifting, heavy on her side. Her head feels like it's going to sink. She wonders if Henry gets that from her too. Emma's fists rub at her eyes.

“Should we move?”

He shakes his head. She watches it tilt to the side. He keeps his voice low. She's learned quickly just how single-minded fairies are. Or pixies. Or whatever. 

“Nah,” Hook says. “She may be sharp, but she's particular about her tells.”

“Sounds like you have too much time on your hands,” Emma's voice is dry.

Hook smirks. His fingers flick gently against her forehead; her surprise is hard to hide.

“A bit jealous, then?”

“Of you?” her mouth twitches. Then she gives him no room. “Whatever.”

He makes a soft sound. It's too low in his throat to be anything but. She hears it somewhere near the crook of her throat. His mouth is too close and then suddenly, it's David making a noise from the other side of the campfire. She waits for his eyes to open. She waits for the angry flush to cross her cheeks. But then she thinks of Neal, then Neal and Henry, but really just _Henry_ because forgiving Neal is something that the door seems to keeps getting smaller and smaller. She does not think of him gone. He's come and gone as he's always come and gone. She feels uneasy.

Instead his hand drops to her hip. He tugs lightly at her shirt.

“Where are you going, Swan?”

“In my head,” she murmurs.

“A deep dark place?”

“Something like that.”

He meets her gaze. “Sounds complicated,” he murmurs, and he's leaning in, his mouth parting slightly. She listens to him. “I like complicated.”

Maybe she should laugh.

Something else gives though. Her hand presses against his chest. She has messy, sticky hair. The ends are curling into her shoulders and she almost hopes for whiskey again. But there's nothing in the pocket of his coat and she knows him well enough at this point.

But her head is back in the woods again and she shifts, skimming forward, pushing onto her boots. The dirt kicks up and she stands. Tinker Bell opens her eyes. Mary Margaret is waking and her toes press into his legs. He's looking up at her, chin tilted up. His eyes are bright, far too bright, ready to dare should she press just a little more. She isn't restless yet and it's there, between them, drumming up as some sort change. It's like suddenly he's got the secrets of the universe of the tip of his tongue and she almost, _almost_ wants to know why. Emma carries her curiosity too close to her heart as it is.

Finally, she finds her voice. She's grabbing her sword. The weight carries into her palm. She pauses; he stands into her side, fingers ready over her hip.

“You're too much,” she says, and somehow, it makes him laugh.


End file.
